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The Secret of Mertoii 



A PLAY 



By David H. MacAdam, 



ST. LOUIS, MO. 



(Copyrig-ht 1898, by the Author. 
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THE SECRET OF MERTON. 



A PLAY. 
DEAMA TIS FEIitiON^. 



Sm Hugo Merton. - 

Hubert Merton, 

Bertram, 

Justin McCarty, - 

Farrone, 

Maxwell, 

Mr. Mortimer, 

Lady Ann Merton, 

Miss Annette Annesley. 

Mrs. Seward, . 
Maria Simpson, 



Lord of Merton. 

Half brother to Sir Hugo. 

Old gamekeeper and senHcnt. 

An Irish servant. 

A London detective. 

A servant. 

Solicitor. 

Mother of Sir Hugo. 

Relative of Lady Merton and 

resident at Merton Hdl. 
Old housekeeper. 
A waiting maid. 



Ladies and, Gentlemen and Attendants. 



ACT I. 

tiCEtiK l.—Lihrari/ at 3Ierton H(dl. Two servants, Maria Simpson 
and Justin McCarty dusting and (trranging furniture in the 
library. 

Maria. No, Justin, that's not it. I care not for dancing, balls 
and company but, what I like not here is an air of mystery. I never 
know whafs goingr on. It's a beautiful house, but there's queer 
people in it, and altho' I've almost grown up here I get more tired 
of it every day. 

Justin. Faith, Miss Maria, there's quare people everywhere,- 
but when the wages and eatin' is good we can stand the quarness. 
Now here I am, twenty-four years of age and a pretty sound bit of a 
man if I say it myself {drumming his chest ) and I don't care how quare 
they be or what whispering and colloguing goes on when I am well 
paid and well fed and have a chance— My gracious, Maria! What a 
beauty you are this morning. ( Approaches her amorously. ) 

Maria. Here, Justin, you hold off. I want no nonsense, now. 
I say I don't like it and I think— I think I'm going to quit. (Looking 
furtively at Justin.) 

Justin. Quit? Not much you ain't, and I tell you, Maria 
(raising his arm and a.^suming a tragic attitude), if you goes I goes. 
We moves as a unit — we rises, we falls together. 

Maria. Shut up, Justin; who gave you a right to talk that 
way':* What have you to do with me'? 

Justin. (Throwing down his dusting bru.'^h and wringing his 
hands.) Hear her! Hear her! 'Evens and earth; what have I to do 
with her'? Aye, what indeed. But turn it "round, turn it 'round, 
Maria; what have you to do with me'? 

Maria. (Laughing.) That's what I said. 



2 The Secret of Mekton. 

Justin. No, no— I mean— it's you, you Maria Simpson, that 
has to do with me, Justin McCarty. Why, I have no lieart— it's 
yours. I dream of you night and day. Your my sun, star, moon 
and queen rose. My — 

Maria. [Interrupting.) Your granny, Justin; gibberish!^ Your 
sun, moon, star! You pastoral and most countrytied ass, is that 
the way they make love down in Ireland? 

Justin. {Folding his arms and surveying her solemnly.) Miss 
Simpson, when I speaks love you call me an ass— that's a nice way 
for a young woman to talk. That's not the way they do in Ireland 
or any other country where hearts prevail. No, siree! They looks 
love, they sighs love, they acts love, and so it goes and grows— it 
isn't made at all. You can't make it, it comes like the fruit and 
flowers. 

Maria. Well, well, Justy; don't let's us quaxn-el. I'll take it 
back. You ain't just an ass, but only a little assish. It's all the 
same anyhow. I really think I'll quit— honest now— I really mean 

it. 

Justin. But why':* Is there anything particular wrong now'::' 

Maria. Why, yes; everything is wrong. Lady Ann is prouder 
and stiffer than ever. Sir Hugo stalks 'round like a Black Prince, 
and poor Miss Annesley keeps her room, and her eyes are red with 
weeping. The house is like a funeral. It's two months since the 
old master died and things get worse instead of better. In a few 
days Mr. Hurbert will arrive and then I suppose we'll all be pack- 
ing. He, they say, will have a new set. 

Justin. Have you ever seen this Mr. Hurbert':' 
Maria. No. and few here have. You see, Justin, the stor-y 
runs this way: Old Sir Hugo Merton married twice. His first wife 
was an Italian lady and liked not England, and never came to Mer- 
ton. She died two years alter marriage, leaving one son, Hurbert. 
For some reason the old man never brought this boy home, and a 
year or two after his wile's death he married again, the present 
Lady Ann. There was trouble between them, and Mrs. Sevard, the 
housekeeper, tells of bitter quarrels. Indeed, I heard one of them 
myself. It was shortly before the old baronet's last illness, and in 
this very room. He used to take a small cup of coffee every night 
before he went to bed , and it was my business to bring it to him. I 
came in softly by that side door [pointing) and she, Lady Ann, was 
standing before him, tall and fierce, and her eyes a flashing and he 
a sitting in that arm chair a poor, weak old man, and I heard her 
say: "You will disgrace your own name and the House of Merton 
if you push aside the rightful heir and instal an Italian bastard as 
master here." The old man seemed convulsed with passion and 
cried : ' ' Silence, Ann ! Your foul tongue dishonors a pure and holy 
memory. Hurbert is my first born and I will protect his rights." 
I tell you Justin [lowering her voice), if Sir Hugo had not died sud- 
denly a few days after this, I believe there would have been wild 
and wicked work to make him change his will. But he was taken 
away, and except the incomes left my lady and young Sir Hugo, the 
estate goes to Hurbert Merton, who is now expected to arrive. 



The Secret of Mekton. :} 

{A hell riny.'i.) Maria. There! I'm called. You keep still 
about what I've told you or — {»S7(e runfi ojf.) 

Justin. [Dnstiny.) Well, what's it all to mc. I does my work 
and cares nothing for their schemes and quarrels. O, this money, 
money and pride! How they do corrupt the great! Nothin' but 
schemeing and plotting and what the prayer book calls "hatred and 
malice and all uncharitableness." But, 'pon my soul, this young 
Hurbert comes to a dangerous place if all's true that Maria says — 
he'd better stay away — but that's hisown affair. But what a lovely 
lass is my Maria; and when the day comes that I make her Mrs. 
McCarty, there won't be a prouder man in the British Empire. 
( Sinyfi. ) 

O! Maria, Maria, is a lovely lass, 
Though she calls her lover an ass, an ass: 
But her eye is soft when her tongue is bad, 
And she's learning to love this Irish lad. 

O! Maria, Maria's a lovely lass — 

Faith, that's poetry and I am — 

{Enter Sir Hugo.) 

Sir Hugo. Close the windows, the air is chill, and leave the 
room. 

[Exit .Justin. (Aside.) Bedad, he scowls like an angry bear.] 

Sir Hugo. {Advances to one of the icindown and looks out on the 
knvns and woods.) And so a stranger is lord of Merton and all its 
ancient splendor. A sallow-faced Italian with a soft Southern 
tongue usurps the station of an English nobleman and my mother — 
myself — become the pensioners of his bounty. They call this law — 
the will of my father — whose dotage did destroy his moral sense and 
becloud the use of intellect. I call it wrong and foul injustice and 
a libel on the dignity of race by which the false takes issue with 
the true, and that which should not be is put in eminence and 
made the thing which is against all justice and common sense. O 
mother, mother! how poorly didst thou play the cards for so great 
a prize. [Binys a hell.) 

{Enter Maria.) 

Sir Hugo. Tell my Lady Ann I would speak with her. 

Exit Maria, talkiny to her.-ielf. {Aside.) Humph! He orders me 
around as if I were a slave. "Tell my Lady Ann!" Why not 
"please," or "kindly tell?" He looks dark and threatening this 
morning and yet he's a handsome man, were he not so stern. He 
needs a woman to soften him. Aye, if he were in love he would be 

gentler. 

{Enter Lady Ann.) 

Lady Ann. Good morning, son.- I thought ere this you were 
in the woods or had joined the hunt at Briarly. 

Sir Hugo. Nay, mother; I have no heart for sports afield 
when we are soon to cut adrift from Merton Hall and must seek 
shelter in the city's smoke or board and lodging in some English 
watering place: mayhap, a French resort where cheap cafes 
abound. 



4 The Secret of Mekton. 

Lady Ann. {Leaning against the carved mantel surveys her son 
steadily.) Your thoughts do dwell too much on our misfortune and 
not on means to remedy it. Why should we leave at all? 

Sir Hugo. (QuicMy and rvith surprise.) Nay, mother. I thought 
that was settled. When Hurbert comes he will be master here and 
shall we stay as tolerated guests to watch his rule and defer to his 
authority where all have done our bidding? Shall we, as base sti- 
pendiaries, accept a second place and cringe before this foreign- 
born youth who, by a mad man's act, is made master here? 

Lady Ann. Hugo, when pride by circumstances is sore beset, 
then patience is true wisdom— it is the art of waiting— and when 
confronted by unalterable facts it boots us not to rail against them. 
We have been rash and passionate, and now 'tis time we did adopt 
another course. 

Sir Hugo. [Laughing conteniptuously.) AVhatV Is this my 
mother? That fierce and most impatient lady who did so furiously 
contend with my dead father? Another course! What mean you? 

Lady Ann. [Sternly and ivith emphasis.) I mean to clearly hold 
in view the end that we desire, and lend our powers to accomplish it. 
All things yield before the centered and determined will, and when 
two combine the torrent of their purpose overmasters all. There is 
but one life between us and supreme succession here — that life may 
fail. 

Sir Hugo. Mother! May fail! How? 

Lady Ann. I know not how, but life is alwaj^s frail and when 
-its thin and wavering flame meets the tempest of opj)osing will it 
flickers first and then expires. Why should we flee the coming of 
this boy? "Tis true, he is the heir by will; but we who should be 
first stand next, and by right and justice we should be first. He 
comes here, then, an alien and a stranger, with sacred principles op- 
130sing and without a friend to welcome or sustain. The spirit and 
genius of ovir house oppose, and they have resistless force and 
never fail to blight the foes of Merton. Let us stay to meet 
him. Aye, meet him with a smile upon our lips, and words of 
courtesy. We know not what may happen, but this we "know; that 
where right and courage are there must be means of vindication. 

Sm Hugo. ( Who has heen ivalking up and down, stops in front of 
Lady Ann.) 'Tis strange that my proud mother should counsel 
such a course. I know not what you mean, and methinks there is 
strange suggestion in your words. What can change the situation 
save accident, and that rarely comes when wanted. When think you 
he will arrive? 

Lady Ann. This dispatch is all I know. It came this morning 
from Apsden station. ( Hands him a dispateh. ) 

Sir Hugo. [He reads.) "London— Thursday— Lady Ann Mer- 
ton. I hope to kiss your hand on Saturday or sooner. Love to my 

brother Hugo. Hubert Merton." It is a friendly and a simple 
note and bespeaks a guileless natiire. 

Lady Ann. [Passionately.) Yes, words come easy to the for- 
tune favored. 'Tis dark misfortune that is hard of speech. ' 'Guile- 
less " say you? An Italian nurtured youth by plotting priests be- 



The Seckiot of Merton. 5 

set, who learned scheming with his mother's milk. Why hath he 
stayed so long awayV What strange influences did he control to fix 
his father in unnatural course against your claim and mine, his 
true wedded wife? Aad now, when sudden death hath decomposed 
our plans he comes with smiles and gentle words to grasp the place 
and honor of our native right. A bastard foreigner usurps your 
station — rises like an apparition of the deep and, smiling, thrusts 
us down. ''Kiss my hand!'' I would some deadly taint did there 
attach and he would wither from the touch. 

Sm Hugo. [Laughing rudely.) Bravo! Bravo! In right royal 
style disclaimed. That is like the Lady Ann of old. But what say 
youV ''Bastard!" If that were so we might despoil his claim. 

Lady Ann. Nay. I speak of my belief, and not what we could 
prove in court. 

Sir Hugo. But, mother, it is a harsh and most unworthy term. 

LAt)Y Ann. We talk alone; and when by passion torn, I am not 
scrupulous of words. Let it pass — there! I am calmer now. Surely, 
I must learn self control if I would think out the problem that doth 
us confront. Yes, it is my judgment that we should await his 
coming and meet him as relations true. We know not what strange 
happenings may come to our relief. And now, Hugo, as we do fa- 
tigue ourselves by painful questioning, let us cease it for the 
present. Come, Sir; let us ride to Apsden and inquiry make about 
the London trains. Let Lady Ann and Hugo be seen upon the road 
and in pleasant guise. 'Tis never well when things are adverse to 
let the world see it in our action. 

Sm Hugo. Why, mother! You have not been on horseback 
for a year. 

Lady Ann. It matters not. My hand is light, my seat sure. I 
have not lost the art. Qouie{fondlj), my son. my knight. Order 
the horses — we will see fair Merton's fields and woods. 

Sir Hugo. As you will, sweet mother: but, think a moment. 
He may arrive to-day. This is Friday. 

Lady Ann. Well, what of it? 

Sir Hugo. To-morrow is Saturday. What can happen in a 
day'? 

Lady Ann. [Ahstraciedh/.) To-morrow! To-morrow! (She 
wfdks to windoiv and looks out and i-eturns. ) Hugo, it is written: "We 
know not what a day may bring forth." Let us front the future with 
a fixed, unmoving eye. Naught to cowards, but all to those who on 
themselves rely. But, now I must have action — change — order the 
horses: I will shortly come. 

• [Exit.) 

[Enter Mrs. Seward, old housekeeper. ) 

Sir Hugo. Good morning, nurse: I hope the night was kind to 

thee'? 

Mrs. Seward. I am well, Sir Hugo; but the night was dark 

and windy and the Merton woods did moan, and Arva's stream 

hoarsely called at times and banished sleep. 

Sir Hugo. ( Smiling. ) Wliaf? Can it be that you, most saintly 



6 The Secret of Merton. 

and devout old lady, who, sixty years have spent at Mcrton, must 
sleepless be because a rain-swelled stream bespeaks its trouble on 
the midnig-ht air? Surely, you believe not in the CLuaint old lines 
my father often quoted : 

"When Arva's stream at night doth call, 
Then danger cometh to Merton Hall." 

Mrs. Seward. Nay, Hugo; I know not. I know that Heaven 
rules and that trouble cometh not without its Will. But I cannot 
rid myself of the folk-lore of this ancient ho'use, and surely, Arva's 
voice hath been heard of many times when e're a Merton died. 

Sir Hugo. ( Laughing. ) Aye, and will be heard again, for it 
hath rapids and, in places, rocky banks, and when the rains do 
freshen it or favoring winds do blow, the murmm- of its water is 
heard within these walls. 

Mrs. Seward. Your father died in summer time, Sir* Hugo, 
and heat and drought prevailed, but the night before his sudden 
death I heard the swell of Ai-va. 

Sir Hugo. Pish! Old nurse, you deal in fears and fancies. 
Such things are idle and come to those who dream of portents vague 
and when age or weakness doth disturb the brain. Now, you are a 
most religious woman and given much to prayer. Often, as a boy, 
I've watched your long devotions and wondered what a time you 
spent upon your knees and what good it brought you, for save to 
live at Merton and be a kind and loving nurse, and guide to its 
most unruly childi^en, I could see no other fruit. But all the world 
says prayer brings a blessing; then, Mother Seward, pray now with 
all your power. Pray, I say, and bring to Merton the aid we need; 
for darkness closes 'round us. 

Mrs. Seward. Your brother comes soon? 

Sir Hugo. Yes — my brother as you call him — I wish your 
prayers could blight him ere he came — 

Mrs Seward. Hush! Hush! Dear boy, speak not of an ab- 
sent brother thus. It may be his coming will a blessing prove. 

Sir Hugo. Ah, nurse! You ever hope for good though evil 
cometh oftener — but here's my mother; we will ride abroad like 
lovers — look, good nurse! Saw you ever a more gracious, graceful 
lady? 

( Enter Lady Ann. ) 

Lady Ann. (Dressed for riding.) Now, son, I'm ready. Good 
morning. Mother Seward. Should a gentleman arrive while we are 
absent, you know your orders. 

( Exit Sir Hugo and Lady Ann. ) 

(^.s they ride off down the <(vemie Mrs. Seward UKitdies them from, 
the -portico. ) 

Mrs. Seward. Mother and son! How like and what a noble 
pair. Yet one is from a stranger stock and lacks the sweeter spirit 
of the house. She is too proud, and Hugo, too. I do mistinist their 
future — to learn humility is doubly hard for cold and stern natures, 
and yet, without it there is no light of heaven — nor sure protection. 



The SecivMot of MEitTON. 7 

Scene II. — Time, fiame duy—aftcrnoon. Pluce, yameJcecper's lodge in 
the 3Ieiion imods. 

[Enter Lady Ann in ridiny h(d)il (tnd carrying whip-- just dismounted.) 

Lady Ann. In evil as in virtue we need the help of others. 
Man or woman cannot sin alone, for "tis to others we are bad or 
good. I must now have help in my design, and where better seek it 
than from this old and trusty friend of Merton. though he bo some- 
what wild and strang-e. 

(Enter Bp:rtram. ) 

Beirtram. Why, Lady Ann! You here and alone! ( He doffs 
his cap and approaches. ) 

Lady Ann. Good Bertram, thou lookest hale and well — the 
years are kind to thee. 

Bertram. My lady, Merton air is good, and I live a quiet life. 
"Why should I not be strong? But last week I did outwalk Sir Hugo 
when shooting on the farther hills, and he did confess it as we 
reached this spot. Yes, yes ( laughing), this old frame hath vigor 
left and will have many year — 

Lady Ann. I have been riding with my son and left him at the 
crossing of the park. My horse is yonder. (Pointing.) Thou art 
the oldest friend we have in all the country "round, and T thought 
I'd like to see thee and grasp thy honest hand once more — before, 
before we lose the right to thy support. 

Bertram. Lose the right — the right. How canst that be? This 
is Merton and I am Merton too, for aye. 

Lady Ann. Thou knowest, Bertram, of the other son — Hubert. 
He comes soon and must be master here. We talk not much of our 
affairs with outside people, but, you are Merton to the core, and 
faithful and discreet. He comes to-night, perhaps — or, certain, to- 
morrow. 

Bertram. I understand, my lady. I know the story many a 
year, and when I went abroad with master last I saw the boy at 
Turin. 

Lady Ann. Saw him! What was he like? 

Bertram. No more a Merton than a girl born — whom he doth 
much resemble — a pleasant face with ej^es of blue and thin drawn 
features. A weak and washy lad whom I thought and wished would 
early die. And yet, withal, he had some spirit, for he did clasp my 
hand and looked boldly in my eye: ''And you are Bertram,"' said 
he, "the man who keeps the woods, at home, and art faithful always 
to our race."' Yes, my lady, I remember well his words. 

Lady Ann. Well, it matters not — he comes and Hugo yields 
his place. Alas! It rends our hearts. 

Bertram. What? Yields? He leaves not here! 

Lady Ann. Not quite at first, but, surely, in a little time. By 
will and law this Italian boy must reign at Merton. 

Bertram. (Much aqitated.) I had not thought of this — "tis 
strange and terrible. What? Sir Hugo leave his home and a pal- 
lid foreigner be lord of Merton? It must not be. Great heaven, 



8 The Secret of Merton. 

lady! — The very stones would rise in insurrection and shake the pile 
about his ears. 

Lady Ann. Ah, Bertram, I knew thy honest heart would feel 
the blow, but — what canst thou doV 

Bertram. I know not, but I would give my life. Aye, soul 
itself, if that be more, to save Sir Hugo. My tall and gallant boy 
whose fierce, dark eye doth show the spirit of his noble line. Why, 
I've taught him all he knows— to shoot, to ride, to swim and sail 
the angry waves, and who can equal him? 

Lady Ann. We cannot help it, Bertram, and must accept the 
doom. Unless the Italian's life does fail, there's no escape. 

Bertram. When comes this stranger? 

Lady Ann. To-day — perhaps to-morrow. We know not yet. 
Good-bye, Bertram; thy place is sure if we go or stay — I'll see thee 
later on this matter. 

Bertram. I'll never stay to see Sir Hugo go. Good day. my 
lady. Be sure I'll think upon your words, and, mayhap, there'll 
open some relief. I ne'er saw a wild and rocky pass that daring- 
footsteps could not cross. 

(Exit Lady Ann.) 

Bertram. [Alone.) It is a situation dark and damnable, and 
fitting outcome to the foUy of old Sir Hugo with that Italian woman. 
I do well recall that I did warn him. "It is not well, my lord," I 
said, "to wed this foreign lady who has no English ways and is not 
fit to rule at Merton Hall," and he was wroth and did reply in scorn 
and even struck me with his whip, and straight repented and did 
ask my pardon with true Merton grace — and now he's dead, and 
comes this foreign son to push Sir Hugo from his seat. It shakes 
me sore and makes me desperate. God keep this Hubert from my 
path to-night. 

[Exit.) 
(End of first act.) 

ACT II. 

Scene I. — Place — Merton woods, near the gavielceeper's lodge — A wild 
and windy night, with rain. Time — About nine o'clock night. 

(Enter Bertram. ) 

Bertram. I cannot sleep and methought I heard a cry amid 
the raging of the woods. It is no night for poachers, and those 
abroad must helpless be in this wild wind and rain. Hark! There 
it is again — a faint halloo, and towards the hazel copse — I'll answer 
make. (Shouts.) Ah! he replies. Again — I'll light a torch and wave 
if for a sign. (He lights a pine knot and ivaves it to and fro.) He calls 
and comes. I hear steps amid the undergrowth. He calls again. 
(Calling.) This way, now. 

{Enter a tall young man mth garments wet and torn.) 

Stranger. Thanks, thanks, my friend. Your friendly call 
and light hath led me here to shelter, for I am much fatigued and 
worn. 



The Skckjot of Mekton. !) 

Bertram. Who art thou thus to roam the Merton woods at 
night, when storm and rain prevail^ 

Stranger. A most unwise, adventurous youth, I fear. I took 
the |-rass path from the mill at Briarly— they told me there it led to 
Merton Hall — and so swift the darkness came that 'mid the shadow 
of the trees I lost it and have been wandering since, with many a 
fall. But, kind sir, I am cold and wet. Will you not take me in 
and question afterwards. 

Bertram. To Merton Hall, you say? What woulds't thou 
there y 

Stranger. {Smi.Uug. ) Faith, I want nothing now but shelter 
and some food. 

Bertram. Come in. 

{They enter the lodge together.) 

Bertram. Here is hot coffee and bread and meat. But, stay! 
Here are dry clothes and shoes. 

Stranger. (Having chcmged his outer clothing sits Ijefore the fire 
and eats. ] I am a stranger in this damp and most inclement clime, 
and would I ne'er had come. I had business with the Lord of Mer- 
ton, and as the afternoon was line and warm I thought I'd walk from 
Briarly, and took the woodland path and so lost my way and 
caught the brunt of this wild storm. 

Bertram. ( Regardi'ng him .'iteadih/.) And knowest thou well the 
Lord of Merton. that thou cumest at this untimely hour and in such 
solitary guiseV 

Stranger. Good man, I am much fatigued and sleepy. I 
feign would rest a while, if thou wilt forego your questions. Sir 
Hugo and his mother. Lady Ann, are lord and lady at the Hall, are 
they not? I wish them well and mean no harm to them or any one — 
but, let me sleep a moment, for I am much o'erwrought. On this 
settee let me recline — ten minutes rest will restore my strength. 

Bertram. Aye, sleep your fill; I will go out awhile. 

( The stranger lies down and soon falls into heavy slumher. ) 

Bertram. {Outside.) What strange chance is thisV Who is 
this guest who comes to me unsought? Great God! Could this be 
he? Delivered to my hands — all alone, at night, in this place re- 
mote, with storm and darkness holding all the world, and not an 
eye to see him come. Could this be he? Then circumstance, or ac- 
cidence, or Providence, or what the power be that makes occasion 
for the deed — that speaks by opportunity and not by words — that 
points in silence and doth lead the way now clearly doth advise 
and guide. O, Lady Ann! When you didst ask me: "What canst 
thou do?" Thou little knew of such a chance as this. Ah! Hugo! 
In all the world old Bertram has best jjower to serve thee now. 
They call me "mad," these fools around, but I can see a chance. But 
soft — no error make. I must be sure. He slumbers heavily, and 
must have cards or paj^ers in his coat. 

{Enters the lodge anel looks at the sleejjer.) 

Bertram. It is a noble face, yet delicate and womanish and 
not unlike the boy I saw in Italy— he hath the Merton nature, too, 



10 The Secret of Merton. 

to sleep secure in sullen, unknown company. It never thinks of 
danger, and trusts without knowing. But, here's his coat and 
pocket book. ( Examines papers. ) 

Bertram. [Starts hack aghast. ) 'Tis so! 'Tis so! My hopes 
and fears alike confirmed. My God! To think — { Bet veats from the 
room.) Now, by the living Lord, I saw the crest of Merton, "the 
antlers interlocked," the name, Hubert. Who would believe it? 
Was ever happening more wild and strange? 'Tis he, by proof un- 
doubted — I am distraught to think — to think of such a thing. [He 
staggers ahout and sobs. ) A foe doth threaten Merton, and Hugo's 
place by him is claimed — and on a night of storm that foe unarmed 
and friendless doth rise upon the lonely hearth of Bertram's lodge. 
Alone — with me who am all Merton, and who, to serve Sir Hugo, 
would lose a fabled heaven or walk undaunted to the raving mouth 
of hell. Oh! foolish -sleeping boy, to trust where thou shouldst 
dread. Oh! Lady Ann — Lady Ann! "What can I do?" You'll see 
my lady. There's much old Bertram of the iron hand can do to 
save the House of Merton. But how? I must the means devise. 
The occasion's made without my will, but to frame the deed within, 
that's left to me — but where or how? There's the trouble. We want 
no tell-tale crimson in the woods — nor rotting body '.neath the soil; 
How, dark Bertram? How? 'Tis a famous night to work the weal 
of Merton's son. Hear! The storm doth roar amid the woods as 
tho' the banded powers of the air did wake the anger of the forest, 
and it did shout its wrath. Oh! 'tis a proper night — all nature con- 
secrates the deed — but how? That vital question doth recur again. 
Hark! Hear the winds adown the valley sweep and now, methinks, I 
hear the ocean's voice its distant thunders add. But, hark! there 
is at times a murmur on the gust that is not rushing air nor yet 
lamenting branch. A sort of keen — a hoarse, metallic note contin- 
uous — that swells and then declines. Ha! I have it now — again! Aye, 
I know it well — again, again doth night and storm and nature point 
the way. 'Tis Arva's voice a-calling forth the means. The fierce, 
dark stream is raging towards the sea. 'Twill sweep great 
branches and why not a lighter load? All traces vanish where 
rushing water goes. Ha! ha! ha! I have it now. {Laughing fntn- 
tically.) Aye, so runs the legend old: 

When Arva's voice at night doth call, 
Then danger cometh to Merton Hall. 

For once we'll contradict the prophecy. 

When Arva's voice at night doth call. 
Then cometh aid to Merton Hall. 

Thanks, thou mighty stream — thou didst call betimes. Aye, Sir 
Hugo, aid most prompt and sui^e. A blow, or, mayhap, a jjush, 
and away the stranger goes. Your foe swift seaward swept and not 
a trace — away to meet the vastness of the sea, and back to Italy 
perchance — But still the matter m^st be arranged, and how? 
(He re-enters the lodge.) 

Bertram. He sleepeth still — a fair young face — a tall and 
shapely lad, and though neither hair nor cheek is of Merton hue, 



TiiK Skukiot of MEirroisT. 11 

the features and the oval brow are like the race. He wakes — now — 
(Stranger openK his ci/cs end starts into a sittiny posture.) 

Stranger. Where am I? Yes, I do now remember. Thou art 
the forester that gave me aid. Why lookest thou at me thusV It 
seems as though some care or trouble did disturb thy soul. But, 
no, 'tis in my eyes — the host that saves and aids is always friendly. 
Tell me, my man, how far are we from Merton Hall"? 

Bertram. Scarce half a mile by shortest path. 

Stranger. And is it late at night? 

Bertram. No, my master, 'tis scarce ten o'clock. If thou art 
Sir Hugo's friend I can guide thee to the Hall and it will scarce ten 
minutes take. 

Stranger. (Risiny and loidkiny about and stretchinq himself.) I 
surely am his friend and would wish to reach his home — 'tis late 
and stormy, but sleep, and food, and warmth have restored my 
strength and — thou sayest ten minutesV 

Bertram. Aye, sir, or even less. 

Stranger. Can we see the lights from hereV 

Bertram. Nay, the trees obscure — but 'round the shoulder of 
yon hill you can look down upon the castle. 

Stranger. (Aside, smiUny to himself.) I wonder if it be too 
late. It was my fancy to valk in unknown and put my arms around 
his neck and say: "Brother Hugo, I am here.'* It may not be the 
way to do in this cold England, but 'twas my humor and in friend- 
liness devised. This stern-browed man and lonely lodge are poor 
w^elcome for my father's son. 

Stranger. Do they retire early at the hall? 

Bertram. It's midnight ere the lights are out. I know their 
customs well. Now, and for an hour or more you'll find them in 
the library — I will guide thee gladly there and would wish you'd go, 
for I have business in the woods to-night and must leave thee here 
alone. 

Stranger. { Laughing.) Ha! it will be famous sport — to walk 
in like a wraith at night. I'll carry out my adventure. Yes, my 
friend, my coat and shoes are partly dried — I'll go. Now make 
ready. Have you a lantern? 

Bertram. ( Trembling. ) So! Thou wilt go? All things favor. 
Yes, I've lanterns enough — 

[They make readij and leave the lodge. ) 

Stranger. Is the path secure? 

Bertram. 'Tis easy walking but we have a bridge to cross. 

Stranger. Lead on, my guide, lead on, and let thy lantern 
shine upon the path. Surely, "tis seldom such a visitor, in such a 
guise, did come to Merton Hall. 

Bertram. Why didst thou choose it so? 

Stranger. O, it was a boyish notion. I thought to do it in 
strange fashion. 

Bertram. We near the bridge—it is narrow and not wide 
enough for two — 'tis used by woodsmen only. As we step down the 
bank you must go first. 



12 The Secret of Merton. 

Stranger. It seems a dark and rushing stream — see — the risen 
water does near the planks o'erflow. Is it not dangerous? 

Bertram. No; the planks are Merton oak and heavy. 

Stranger. (He hesitates and looks at Bertram and then adi'ances. ) 
Well, on I must, but a slip and all is gone and all my hopes — 

Bertram. ( Aside. ) Then go — they will — here's for Sir Hugo. 

( As the stranger steps toxoards the pkmks Bertram strikes him 
heavil}/. He falls unconscious against a tree which saves him. from the 
water.) 

Bertram. Hell's blight upon that sapling, which makes new 
work to do. I must now pitch him in — 

( He stiimhles and the light goes out. ) 

Bertram. Damnation! — Black as pitch! I must now fire up, 
or I myself will seaward go — in this slippery mud. I wonder if I 
killed him with that blow — old Bertram's list rarely missed its pur- 
pose, with a little lead to aid it. 

[As he strives to relight the lantern a gas-ping noise is heard.) 

Bertram. Great God! He's living yet; but in he goes, when I 
can make a light. 

(Strikes a match which is blown out hi/ the wind.) 

Bertram. Curse that blast — I have poor art for hunter born. 

(Strikes again. Lights the lantern and .sef.s it down and advances to 
the body.) 

Stranger. (Faintly.) What has happened? Had I a dread- 
ful fall? That flash of light— that face! 'Tis old Bertram I saw in 
Italy. (Calls.) Bertram! Help! Bertram, whisper. (Mutters some 
words. ) 

(Bertram starts back and drops the lantern, which is extinguished.) 

Bertram. (Tramping 'round among the trees as if crazy.) I can- 
not — I cannot do it — let heaven or hell jjrepare the way and call me 
on. I cannot do it. He hath called my name and said the Merton 
sign my master taught me years agone — the sign of distress. I 
cannot do it. No, never now! Oh! great and dreadful God that 
doth in light and darkness live, I cannot do it, though Thou didst 
marshal me and flaming angel beackoned on. Nay! Come what 
will, he's safe forever now, though cruel hurt has cracked his skull. 
No — murder's out — let Bertram on a scaffold die — let every knave 
that does to executions flock, to gloat on misery, behold Bertram 
hanging by the rope while Merton 's gossips prate of his disgrace. I 
cannot do it and that's an end. 

(Comes hack to body and after several efforts relights lantern.) 

Bertram. He limp and silent lies — he's dead, perhaps, and if it 
be so, then both to Arva's stream are given. ( Puts his ecw to the chest 
of body.) Ha! There is a trembling pulse — a faint breathing yet. 
He lives and may be revived. I will dash some water in his sweet 
and quiet face. Ah! Hubert, if I've killed thee I will not survive 
thee long. He breathes a little stronger. Well, we must be going 
now — damn your flickering flame — I need both hands. (Dashes the 
lantern in the river. ) If Bertram know not the way through Merton 



TiiK Secret of Merton. 13 

woods, though black the night, then nature be ashamed. Come, 
boj^ I'll carry thee — as once I did thy father bear when he was hurt 
by fall 'mid Spanish hills. Come, Hubert, these arms of iron are 
'round thee now — to save — 

(Exit, hcarlvy the body.) 

Scene II. — Merton Hall — Friday night. Large apartment riddy furn- 
ished and lighted. Lady Ann Merton seated near fireplace behind 
screen. Annette Annesley at piano — Sir Hugo standing be- 
hind her. 

Sir Hugo. Sing it again, Annette — 'tis a heartbroken ballad 
but it suits my mood. I never did like merry music — 'tis not the art 
for laughing and deep vibrating chords and pensive minor notes 
have ever higher harmony. That sombre German air doth speak 
the spirit of the present scene and sweeps away upon the wind in 
cadence sweet — love that lives though lovers die bespeaks a grace 
immortal. 

Annette. Nay, Hugo. — Sad songs depress, for love is ever 
hopeful. 

Hugo. Hope is boim of circumstance. Who can be glad when 
all around is dark? Hal Hear that rushing blast which well nigh 
shakes this mighty house. 

Annette. You do infect me with your humor — I feel alarmed. 
( Eises and goes to the window. ) It is an awful night, the woods are 
roaring like an angry sea and the rain descends in sheets. 

Sir Hugo. (Follov:s her and speaking low.) If thou didst love 
me as I do thee you would not fear while I am near. True love is 
guard and shield. 

Annette. (Pointing to the screen. ) Hush, Hugo — such words 
ill suit the present hour. Your mother knows not. 

Hugo. She will know in time, and she knows now the Merton 
motto, '-Steadfast ever." 

Lady Ann. [Calling.) Hugo! 

( He goes towards his mother. Exit Annette) 

Lady Ann. Our present trouble does crowd all else away, but, 
be not rash with that young girl. She is no mate for thee, but like 
a sister is, with whom thy youth was passed. 

Sir Hugo. But, mother, if I love her as a sister and she's not 
my sister, then — 

Lady Ann. My boy, I ever trust thy honor true. Be prudent 
with Annette— pledge not thy heart when thy hand is bound. 

Sir Hugo. BoundV How";* 

Lady Ann. Ask me not now. But tell me.— No word yet? 

Sir Hugo. No sign, and it is strange. No letter, no disi)atch. 

Lady Ann. ( With a sigh.) To-morrow he will come. 

Sir Hugo. Perhaps. We know not. 

Lady Ann. WhyV You seem in doubt. 

Sir Hugo. Nay, mother; but somehow I feel relieved. You 
know you said "we know not what may happen," and now this 
strange silence and delay. May be something has happened. Be- 
sides, what must be, must be. The Merton 's are not wont to stand 
in doubt for lono-. I've my mind made up to take what comes and 



14 The Secret of Merton. 

bear the rest. He is my father's son and it is ignoble to whimper 
at his coming. He hath a right — 

Lady Ann. A right? A poor one too — he is no son of mine, 
and threatens thee. Have I not a right for thee and for myself? 

Sir Hugo. Thou hast— but, mother, what canst thou do — 

Lady Ann. {3£usingly.) Naught— naught, I fear. (Pauses.) I 
rode home to-day by Bertram's lodge and stopped a moment to 
make farewell. He says he will not stay, should we depart from 
Merton. 

Sir Hugo.' He is a fierce yet faithful soul and so steeped in 
Merton ways that he feels our sorrows as his own. He traveled with 
my father years ago and now lives alone, still musing o'er the past. 
And sometimes, so strange he talks, that I've thought his mental 
balance shakes— but he loves me well. 

Lady Ann. Aye, well enough to die for thee. ( Bising.) I think 
I will retire, it nears midnight. Good-night, my son. 

Sm Hugo. Good-night, my mother dear. I wish you slumber 
sweet. 

Lady Ann. Trouble is a foe to rest. To-morrow, Hugo, doth 
antedate its pain and storm now racks the world. I fear me sleep is 

swept away. 

{Exit.) 

Sir Hugo. Well, things are come to a pretty pass and trouble 
hovers over Merton Hall; but, come what may, I must needs meet it 
like a man — 

(.4 door opens softly.) 

Sir Hugo. Who is there? 

[Enter Mrs. Seward. 

Mrs. Seward. Pardon, Sir Hugo. Has Lady Ann retired? 

Sir Hugo. Just now — you should have met her in the hall. 
But why art thou not abed? It is late and the night is wild. 

Mrs. Seward. The casements shake -with heavy gusts and 
rain, and I listen and cannot sleep. 

Sir Hugo. [Jestingly.) I tell thee, my most ancient and super- 
stitious nurse, that thy hearing will destroy thy health. Why dost 
thou listen so? Is Arva calling on the wind? 

Mrs. Seward. ( Solemnly. ) 'Tis even so. Hearken now and 
thou 'It hear it? 

[They stand listening. ) 

Sir Hugo. There's noise enough— the iron roar of storm- 
swept woods. Aye, I hear! The hoarse, continuous purr of run- 
ning water when gusts decline. Well, madam, the wind blows from 
the East, and Ai'va's flood is east of here. 

Mrs. Seward. Hugo! Hugo! It is an ancient sign— do not 
mock. ( Wee^nng.) I fear no evil for myself, but for thee or thine. 

Sir Hugo. We should not fear at all, but travel on whate're 
betide. But, dear old nurse, I would not see thee weep. The night 
is rough and dangerous but 'twill wane away as other nights of 
storm. Merton's mass fears not the rushing air. It is better for 
thee to be abed.— Good night, good night. I will upon the terrace 

walk and feel and view the storm. _ 

[Exit.) 



The Sfx'ret of Merton. 15 

Scene III.— Lady Ann (done—Bed room. 

Lady Ann. Old Bertram hath a fixed and faithful heart. I 
wonder could he aught perform. To-morrow comes, nay, is already 
here, and nothing's done. But there are other days to work. The 
question is, how can we help ourselves V By what strong- effort can 
we break the chain and some deliverance reach? How weak we are! 
And yet they say our wills are fetterless. Ah! could my will to- 
night flash like lightning through the troubled air, I would use it as 
a sword — or, as a viewless force to organize the forms I need, and 
mold events obedient to my wish. That life may fail, so said I to 
Hugo — why not? Others have and all lives fail at some time. Now, 
if by will we — 

[Knocking at the door. ) 

Lady Ann. "Who calls? 

Maria. Please, my lady, I have a note. 

Lady Ann Alas! he comes. 

[Opens the door. ) 

Maria. My lady, old Bertram was in the servants' hall just 
now. He asked for wine, and drank and filled his flask. He seemed 
quite wild in manner and his dress was wet and torn. He said the 
storm much damage wrought — he lingered for a while and then he 
wrote this note and sealed it sure, and said it must reach your hand 
to-night. 

Lady Ann. Ah! Leave it there. You'r late afoot. Good 
night, Maria. 

Maria. [Aside — retiring. ) Well, I'll ever say that Lady Ann's 
a lady. She's stift' and proud but, what low, clear voice, and how 
steady in her glance. Manner is a wonderful art — would that .Justin 
studied it. 

[Exit Maria. ) 

Lady Ann. ( Springs to her feet and opens note, written on a 
rough scrap of paper. Reads. )— 

"He will not come. Bertram." 

Lady Ann. [Transfixed and wild, repeats. ) He will not come. — 
He will not come. Who will not come? Ah! Heavens! A hope. 
What dark Bertram says he means — he knows. He — will not come. 
What does it mean? [Walks distractedly about.) There is but one 
just now whose coming we do fear, and Bertram knows and says — 
he will not come. Will — that may mean of choice. No, no — it means 
he cannot come. Can not? Why? Old Bertram's hand doth shield. 
But, how? Curses on his vagueness — how? How? My pulses rage 
and a mist before me rises. But a moment since I sat here hope- 
less—nothing done and to-morrow here; and now, he will— he can- 
not come. Our foe is gone and danger's cloud dissolves. Thank 
God! But, what? Thank who? If he cannot— cannot come, what 
is it hinders? Can I then say, thank God? How came he by that 
death? I have not slain him; there is no guilt on us. Ah! [Sighs 
deeply.) I shiver and yet I burn. What change inexplicable hath 
o'er me swept. All hope now, and yet— Ha! Ha! [Laughs.) Why 
trouble as to causes when we enjoy effect? If he cannot come, 'tis 
very well. We want him not, and— I must calm and cheerful be. 



16 The Secret of Merton. 

Be still, my heart! Rise, Merton 's native courage to its place — 
{She wanders, muttering, ^round the room and into the corridor.) 
(Enter Sir HUGO.) 

Sir HLugo. It is time I should retire if I would sleep at all. 
Never saw I such a storm — two great oaks upon the lawn are down. 
Whose form is that? Good Lord ! My mother — 

Lady Ann. Hugo, is it you? You are very late — 

Sir Hugo. Mother! In the name of heaven are you mad? 
Wandering in this chill corridor alone — 

Lady Ann. Never better, Hugo. My love, he will not — he can- 
not come. You know, and — O, yes, I'm very well — the night is wild, 
but I am very calm. You will not Merton leave. (Conies up and leans 
upon him.) 

Sir Hugo. Mother — you are disturbed. Your body trembles in 
my arms. Come, let me take you to your rooms. 

Lady Ann. Surely, son, I now can sleep, for all is well. 

{End of i^econd act.) 



ACT II L 

Scene. — I. — Sm Hugo. — On the terrace alone, pacing too and. fro. 
Several toeel's later — time, morninq. 

Sir Hugo. My mother's health is failing. There is a strange 
disquiet in her eyes, and she sits for hours in meditation, sad. Of 
Hubert not a word. He has disappeared — vanished as though his 
being had dissolved. What can I do? I am afraid to move, to 
speak or think of him, or inquiry make by letter. He's free to come, 
and has not come, and from the time of that dispatch from London, 
we have not heard a word. Fears and suspicions, horrible, arise! 
Yet I must keep them down. We Mertons must our secrets keep. 
Could aught have him befallen! And if so, how and where? And 
then this man from London, who is he? Most like an ^nissary from 
Scotland Yard, inspired by word from Italy. He strolls the country 
'round as though an idle tourist, and I meet him in my rides, and 
have heard of inquiries made by him. Aye! I will do it. {Enters 
library, and rings a hell.) 

{Enter .Justin McCarty.) 

Sir Hugo. .Tustin, my black horse, "Dan!" 

.Justin. Yes, sir; wish you a groom? 

Sir Hugo. No; I'll ride alone. But, stay! Have you a 
stranger noted in the neighborhood named Farrone? A tall man 
with short, grey beard and rather clerical appearance? 

Justin. He stops at the Inn at Apsden, and has twice the 
castle visited, and walked about the grounds and gardens. Marie 
Simpson says she met him in the holly walk, and he did courteously 
salute her, and asked questions about Lady Ann and yourself, and 
said he proposed calling here. 

Sir Hugo. Ha, indeed! I heard he wished to see me. 

Justin {retiring, aside). Since Bertram is laid up with aching 
bones, I've seen much of Sir Hugo, and he seems a free and gal- 



Thk SiccRKT OF MrarroN. 17 

lant gentleman, whom I like to serve. But when he takes me shoot- 
ing- he walks me till I 'am nearly dead; and, lately, he has seemed 
distressed, as if some private trouble did weiy-Ii upon liis heart. He 
has an anxious air, and — 

(Enter Maria.) 

Maria. .Justin, where now? 

Justin. Sir Hugo wants his horse. 

Maria. Well, order it. 

(Exit .Justin.) 

Maria. .Tustin is promoted since Bertram is laid ujd, and Sir 
Hug-o takes him shooting and makes of him a daily companion. 
It's fortunate, for if this Italian heir come not, and naught we hear of 
him, Sir Hugo's power here is sure, and he may the boy advance. 
I like Justin; but do I love him':' Yes,' and yet — no. 'Tis hard to 
say — I love him well enough — to like him, but not enough to marry. 
Marry! Marry I That's a serious thing. Once married, and then a 
girl's gone. She must then trust and live upon a man, and if he 
fails — 

(Entc)- .Justin, ((dvdnciuy softhi, und puts his «rm 'rnHiul her neck and 
kisses her cheek.) 

Justin. But there's no such word as fail. 

Maria. (Excited <(nd sl((p)jin<i him.) You Irish, impudent beast 
— take that, and that! 

Justin. (Shielding hiniself with his h((nds.) Marial Maria! 'twas 
only your cheek — a kiss is not worth a blow — nor "beast," either. 

Maria. You have no manners and do presume too much. Why 
don't you court a girl like a gentleman':' You're rough and rash, 
like all the Irish. 

.Justin. (Indignctnt.) I'm Irish I admit, and not ashamed of it. 
But if you hate "the Irish, then you'll ne'er love me, and that's the 
end. The Irish kiss and mean no harm — their sin is never desperate. 
I'm sori'y I have offended — and so good bye. Miss Simpson, you 
called me an ass once, and now have beasted me — you'll do it not 
again. 

(El-it Justin.) 

Maria. Oh! he's mad at last. I fear I was severe. I would 
not lose him yet; but he is in love— he will not go. 

(E.vit.) 

Scene II. — (In Mertrtn Park^Sir Huge) eend Mr.Farmne, meeting.) 

Sir Hugo. I saw you as I rode past, and as you are a stranger 
and have spoken of calling at the hall, I now inquire your wish— 

Mr. Farrone. You are Sir Hugo Merton':' 

Sir Hugo. 'Tis so— what then':' 

Farrone. (Hesitating.) I did intend to see you. Sir, but later — 
just now I hardly know how the case — the matter stands. 

Sir Hugo. (Sterulg.) We stand in Merton Park. If you have 
aught to say to me, speak now— I will not tarry long. 

Mr. Farrone. It's premature, but yet— perhaps 'tis better — 
the most dii'ect is sometimes the best way. Sir Hugo, I am a special 
officer from London. 



18 The Secret of Merton. 

Sir Hugo. (Starts (md seemf< much ajfeded.) Hal as I thoug-ht. 
[ContvoUing himself.) And your business? 

Mr. Farrone. (Watching hint steudily.) Your half brother, Sir 
Hubert Merton, arrived in England some weeks since, and for some 
reason of his own did not announce his coming-. He came to Merton 
on the evening of the storm, and since then, has wholly disappeared. 
He made no calls in London or elsewhere, and but for word from 
friends of his in Italy we would know nothing of the matter. But 
now, inquiry is afoot and I am here to examine and report — 

Sir Hugo. The gentlemen of Scotland Yard are ever on the 
scent of crime — cannot an English gentleman seclude himself with- 
out a sleuth-hound be let loose? 

Mr. Farrone. We are not hounds, Sir Hugo, but instruments 
of justice. There may be nothing in this matter, but we must investi- 
gate, and that with prudence and in private. May I ask some ques- 
tions of you"? 

SiE Hugo. Y-es; be brief. 

Mr. Farrone. Did you know of your brother's coming. 

Sir Hugo. I did — by dispatch from London. He said he would 
arrive Friday or Saturday — the Friday of the storm. 

Farrone. Said he — by what route? 

Sm Hugo. No: we supposed by train to Apsden. 

Farrone. Have you his dispatch? 

Sm Hugo. I think not; I have not seen it since: It may be at 
the hall. 

Farrone. (Slowli/, tvith emphasis.) We know he did now come to 
Apsden, but walked from Briarly and did enter Merton Woods 
about the time the storm broke forth — 

Sir Hugo. Great G — d: Is this true? My brother in the woods 
on such a night — when trees were falling all around? 

Farrone. Aye! Sir — but — there may have b^en worse peril in 
the woods than falling tree or branch. 

Sir Hugo. What mean you? 

Farrone. We have been over every foot of ground from 
Briarly to Castle, and no trace have found — save this — (He draws 
out a cloth cap.) 

Sir Hugo. Where was this found? 

Farrone. By yon river, Arva. It bears no mark, but 'tis 
such as gentlemen sometimes wear. 

Sm Hugo. But Arva lies east of Castle — not on the path from 
Briarly. 

Farrone. True, he may have lost his way and wandered there; 
or, it may be, he was led — 

Sir Hugo. Led? 

Farrone. It is not plain, but did he in that river slip when it 
ran full with heavy rain, then further search were vain — the ocean is 
scarce four miles distant and the body would thither go right swift. 

Sm Hugo. Ah! Itmightbeso. Hubert! Hubert! 

Farrone. Now, you have all I know. But, Sir Hugo, my 
quest is not concluded yet, and I am bound to add that while we 
have kept the business quiet, it seems strange to the authorities that 
those most deeply interested in Sir Hubert's coming have made no 
alarm, nor asked inquiry. 



The Seoriot of Merton. li) 

Sir Hugo. {With suddoi (nitburst.) Now, by heavens, sir officer, 
you do all bounds o'er pass. Mean you to suspicion me or mine":' 
Have a care or I'll whip thee from these grounds were all your i:)ack: 
here present. Sir Hubert told us he was coming and we have waited 
and are waiting still. 

Farrone. Sir Hugo, your passion does me injustice. I am a 
secret service man and plain of speech. I said it seemed strange — 
it must be so, if thou dost reflect upon the circumstances. No 
doubt you can explain. 

Sir Hugo. ( Hotly. ) The Mertons do not bandy speech with 
hounds of the police. Seek and scent you as you please, but if you 
bi'eathe a word and lie against any here — beware! 

( WaJh^ of sivifthi. ) 

Farrone. I did intend to startle him, but now he's foaming 
mad, and it is natural, if he is innocent. (Bcflectiny.) I .rather think, 
when viewing all the facts, that there is mystery but no murder here 
— a most involved affair — the lady and the son had motive clear for 
mischief to the man that's gone, but they knew not that he came from 
Briarly and they could not foresee the storm. But still — [He loalks 
off poncleriny. ) 

Scene 111.— Time, Evening— Merton Hall— Lady Ann-ft Boudoir. 

Lady Ann. [Before the window,) It is soft and spring-like air, 
and bears a fragrance from the woods. I always loved this season, 
when leaves unfold and violet and harebell sweet do peep mid green 
pavilions, and bird notes ring within the shady covers, but now 
I'm sickening with a vague disease and nature seems suspicious. I 
know not what has happened. He cometh not. "He will not come." 
He cannot come, for that's the English of it, and Bertram knoweth 
why. Hugo is distressed and I — I cannot comfort him — must the 
heavy secret still endure and carry. ( Sighs. ) Sore is the heart 
that hath no confidant — dare not confess its trouble, and hidden grief 
does like a canker eat. There seems a spell upon me— a lethargy of 
shame. I summon all my force and try to laugh and talk, but swift 
again the anxious mood prevails. I feel weak and wandering. I 
am a woman— and she was never made for criine. She's passionate 
betimes — but when the evil deed comes clear before her and stands 
unveiled and lowering, she does shrink and hate it. "Thou art 
not me," she cries. "Black spirit, hence to hell! I do detest thy 
company," Ah! me. It flees not, but stands like carven-shape. 
Once come, it ever will remain. I do remember now that shortly 
after marriage my husband took me to a theater in London for some 
grand ballet. — A great spectacular performance. — With wondrous 
scenes of light and color and whirling forms. And when the play was 
over and we to the carriage stepped, I noticed many women richly 
clad but wanting modesty and the air of ladies. I asked Hugo 
Who are these women that throng these corridors? And in care- 
less tones he said: "Abandoned women; they are the curse of 
London." "Abandoned women!'' How strange the words did seem. 
Abandoned and by whom':' If she is abandoned then she can never 
rise for by her nature she needs assistance. Much I did muse on 
this and often the scene before me comes. I see it now— as if the 



20 The Secret op Merton. 

curtain rose in yon dark woods and did it all disclose. Am I aban- 
doned':* Have I no friendV Though Lady Merton, of this stately 
hall, I say, have I no friend? Is there no one left to trustV My 
son! No — he least of all. I dare not tell him I have soiled his 
name. I dare not — though scheming for him alone — I dare not. 
And yet he may suspect — his manner is disturbed, and in his tone an 
innuendo rings. 
(Knocl'.) 
Lady Ann. Come — 

{Enfcr Mrs. Seward. ) 

Mrs. Seward. Sir Hugo asks to see you. 

Lady Ann. Bid him come here. 

Mrs. Seward. [Entering — ,s?ops.) Oh I Lady Ann, forgive my 
loving zeal — but it is not wise — it is not right to keep your rooms so 
much. I fear your health will suffer. If you have trouble then 
fight it down with prayer and seek the company of those you love. 

Lady Ann. [SmiUng. ) Nay, Seward, dear, I am not sad at 
all, nor sick; only languid with the breath of spring. I do forgive 
thee, for there's no trespass but the loving action of your heart. 
Bid Hugo here. 

Mrs. Seward. [Eftiving. Aside.) So proud--so lovely. Would 
I knew how the cloud to lift. 

(Enter Sir Hugo. ) 

Sir Hugo. Mother! I am wrath with you. You came not to 
dinner, and I was all alone in that huge room. Where is Annette? 

Lady Ann. A relative of hers, of mine, is sick near Eaton. 
We had a letter this morning after you had left, and she drove to 
Apsden to catch the forenoon train. She will return next week. You 
remember Mrs. Melville, the pastor's widow. She is old and loves 
us well. I could not go and so I sent Annette. 

Sir Hugo. I wish you had gone, for you do stay too much 
alone, and to my loving eye, you look pale and thin. 

Lady Ann. O, there's nothing wrong with me. {Smiling) — 'tis 
but the fever of the Spring, my son — Merton-s woods are dark and 
heavy, and there's been much rain. 

Sir Hugo. {Sits down hij his mother and takes her hand). Now, 
mother, I have a plan, and I want your concurrence. 

Lady Ann. {Fondhj, and pushes Hugo's hair from his hron\) 
Tell it, son, tell it. Mayhap "twill suit us both. 

Sir Hugo. It is this — let us leave Merton for a while and 
travel together on the Continent or farther. The change of scene 
will do you good, and should it not, we can return. 

Lady Ann. Leave Merton! But, Hugo, it will look strange 
just now. I had not thoughtr of such a thing. 

Sir Hugo. {Excitklly.) I tell you it is the course I wish — 
Hubert has disappeared. We know not where — perhaps he has re- 
turned to Italy. A month has passed and no word has come. We've 
waited long enough — Mother, dear, you will not deny me— I'm much 
in earnest. Will you comeV 

Lady Ann. (GentJt/.) I'll think about it, Hugo. 

Sir Hugo. Nay — that will not do. Come soon — let us start to- 
morrow. 



The Skckiot of Merton. 21 

Lady Ann. Tomorrow! Ah! That's too soon. No lady could 
be ready on such notice, sir. 

Sir Hugo. Yes, tomorrow. I tell you, mother, I am fixed. 
You must — 

Lady Ann. [Surprisedli/.) Must, Hugo— are you distraught? 

Sir Hugo. No; there's reason— that is— the reason is you are 
not well. I am sick of Merton Hall — let us away. 

Lady Ann. I fear, my boy, 'tis -you that's sick. Why should 
we g-o? 

Sir Hugo. Because — nay — I have the reason said. 

Lady Ann. Tomorrow, Hugo — or the next day, or the next— is 
quite impossible — but, perhaps, next week. 

Sir Hugo. Damnation! it may be too late — I mean too late for 
my desire. 

Lady Ann. Hugo! 

Sir Hugo. Pardon, mother, for the word; but I am worried 
with the course of things. So, you will not come? 

Lady Ann. Cannot — not will met. 

Sir Hugo. Good night, then, for I have nothing else to ask. 

{Exit hurriedli/.) 

Lady Ann. He is much disturbed. I never knew him rough 
with me before — perhaps, 'tis Annette's absence; or, some wild fear 
of Hubert's coming. Sure he cannot come — so Bertram says, and 
what he says he knows — sighs. 

Scene IV. — The terrace outside lihrary. 

(Enter Sir Hugo. [In high excitement.) 

I can do naught. My mother will not go — and danger thickens 
round us like the night. This London agent has shown his hand — 
susjiicion does exist, and Scotland Yard is on a trail in MertonHall. 
In the history of this ancient house, did ever such an outrage rise? 
Suspicion against whom? There's only too — myself or Lady Ann — 
my mother! my mother! — to be the quarry of a hired spy. Lady 
Merton, of Merton, I swear by heaven I could kill the man who 
ventured to express it. But, there is no use in raging thus. I must 
collect my senses and be calm — for all on me depends. I am my 
mother's guard. I cannot tell her what Ifeai^ — but, she must be pro- 
tected. She will not go abroad — but there must be other ways. 
Was ever son in such a fix— to fear, even to himself, to say the dan- 
ger that o'er his mother hangs? 

[Enter Maxwell, a servant.) 

Sir Hugo, Mrs Seward bid me say that Justin McCarty, who 
of late has waited on you, has left the Castle. 

Sir Hugo. Left — you mean withdrawn from service? 

Maxwell. Yes, sir. 

Sir Hugo. 'Tis very sudden — what reason gave he? 

Maxwell. None, sir, I know of. 

Sir Hugo. It is not like Justin thus to act; but let it be. 

(Exit Maxwell.) 

Sir Hugo. Humph ! the world shakes and arrangements go to 
pieces — Annette gone — Justin vanishes and Mrs. Seward tells me 



22 The Secret of Merton. 

Maria leaves tomorrow — the ship is sinking, and they're swift to leave. 
Well, I'd be glad if mother would consent. So it was down by 
Arva's bank they found the cap — perchance the legend yet is true. 

( Exit. ) 

Scene V. — The game tej^er'.s Lodge in Merton Woods. Time, same 
night. 

Bertram. 'Tis plain, some change must be effected soon, this 
secrecy cannot '^e maintained long. Save for a little weakness 
caused by fever he is recovered, thank the Lord I 

{Knocl'ing on the ceiling. ) 

Bertram. He calls me. [Before going up stairs he carefully ex- 
amines doors and windoivs.) 

Bertram. What is it, sir? {Entering upstairs ajxirtment in 
which windows are carefully covered.) 

Stranger. Bertram, did you any visitors expect this even- 
ing? 

Bertram. No, sir? Why? 

Stranger. Just after dark, and ere you had returned there was 
a- furtive step upon the porch, and the handle of the door was turned. 

Bertram. [QuicMy.) Ah! saw you any one? 

Stranger. My room was dark, and I kept very quiet — but, 
waiting a moment, I glanced through yonder window and saw a 
retreating figure, and in the moonlight it seemed a tallish man with 
short beard and wearing a close fitting cap. 

Bertram. It was the man from London. 

Stranger. Indeed ! ( Smiling. ) He lingers still — does he? 
We must dispose of him ere long. But, tell me. Bertram, how go 
matters at the Hall? 

Bertram. My lady is not in health, and keeps much in her 
private rooms. Sir Hugo is disturbed, as though worried by a 
secret trouble, and Miss Annesley is absent on a visit. 

Stranger. What think you is the cause of trouble with Hugo? 

Bertram. ( With a grim smile. ) Faith — I think it is this man 
from London. His brother's disappearance is mysterious, and has, 
no doubt, provoked inquiry. Suspicion is abroad, and Sir Hugo 
knows it. 

Stranger. Hal This fellow breeds mischief, and must be dis- 
missed. Bertram, you have promised to obey me. Have you not? 

Bertram. Yes, sir; I have and must. 

Stranger. First, then, bring this officer here and leave him 
with me alone; and then — I have a plan I will unfokl to thee — a plan 
and a strange one — 

Bertram. I'll bring him in the morning. 

Stranger. And so the expected coming of this Italian brother 
has brought a shadow over Merton Hall. 

Bertram. [With agitation.) Aye, sir! the shadow as of great 
misfortune. 

Stranger. Bertram, it is time the situation was relieved and 
I have the power to do it — ask me now how. My Lady Ann and 
Hugo — or, Sir Hugo — have misjudged this foreigner — the very 
rumor of his coming has destroyed their peace, and now a dark 



The Secket of Merton. 23 

suspicion doth increase their yloom. They knew him not, and did 
condemn him, though unknown. Is this justice in this cold land? 

Bertram. They knew he came, Sir Hugo, to supplant and to 
break up the old regime. 

Stranger. { Passionateh/. ) No; they knew not even that — they 
knew not his heart and purposes, and should have waited. 

Bertram. Waited? But the will — 

Stranger. The will of one that's dead needs live men for its 
execution, and in this sordid world there may yet be those whose 
will is love and justice. But, Bertram, fail not to bring the London 
man to-morrow morning. 

{Exit.) 

Bertram. 'Tis coming to me that.this foreign born boy hath a 
very noble spirit, and all of us in our selfish fears have done him 
vast injustice. What? If — but 'tis not for me to interfere — let him 
solve the situation as he pleases. I must obey him, though he trust 
me not. 



ACT V. 

Scene I. — Time, morning — Merton Hall — Maria dusting Library. 

Maria. This new young man Sir Hugo has employed is a very 
pretty fellow. His hands are white — his skin is delicate, and his 
eyes are frank, yet quizzical. In truth, he seems above his station; 
but he suits me better than poor Justin. He is more a gentleman — 
but here he comes. 

(Enter Henry Johnson. ) 

Johnson. Good morning, Miss Maria; you look serene, with 
manners in accord. 

Maria. Lai Mr. Johnson, if my manners were as good as my 
health, I'd be high in life. 

Johnson. Are you not high enough? Fair to look upon 
and much beloved. 

Maria. Beloved — and by whom? 

Johnson. By my predecessor here, who hath left here for your 
sake, and for you lingers still in the vicinity. 

Maria. Justin McCarty, is it? He is rough and Irish and loves 
himself — I want him not. 

Johnson. Nay, fair maid, but he wants thee, and though he's 
left the Hall, he tarrys yet about to see no other wins thee. 

Maria. He left here in a passion, and gave no notice, and Sir 
Hugo was displeased. He had better go away and stay, for them's 
that come are better suited to the place. 

Johnson. Woman, woman! ever faithless! He says you loved 
him once. 

Maria. He's full of impudence— when said he that? 

Johnson. (Laughing.) He met me on the grounds the other 
night and frankly told his tragic story, and served notice on the 
world of men that you were his and any one who sought thy favor 
must endure his wrath. 

Maria. He did— did he? 'Tis shameful impei^tinence— I'll tell 
Sir Hugo and have him driven off. 



24 The Secret of Merton. 

Johnson. (Seriously.) Miss Simpson, those that trifle with a 
human heart will suffer in their own. He is a free and open 
hearted lad, and comely, too — he loves you well, and should you 
lose him, 'twill be hard to find his like. Let not pride nor coquetry 
mistreat a worthy lover. 

Maria. {Indignantly. ) Mr. Johnson, it is not many days since 
you joined the service of the Hall — you know nothing of our affairs. 
It is not your business to advise me like a father — what know you 
of hearts and lovers? It would be better if you sought instruction 
in the business. 

Johnson. Perchance, you will teach me as you taught Justin. 

Maria. {Imjxdiently.) Justin! JustinI all the time! Have you 
no word of yourself? 

Johnson. Nay! I'm advocate for him. I have no ambition 
for flirtation. 

Maria. Have you never loved a girl? 

Johnson. Once I though I did, and found it was an error. She 
was my nurse when I was young and bore me often in her arms. 
She had ringlets, soft eyes and a flower-like face that over-hung me 
like a dream. 

Maria. Lawks me — in love with your nurse? How you talk! 
Say, Mr. Johnson, you make fun of me and think its tine — but keep 
your place and I'll keep mine — you talk too free of private things. 
In love with your nurse, indeed! I hope some woman will make a 
baby of you yet. 

(Exit hastily.) 

Johnson. (Laughing.) This silly maid is like the world — the 
treasure she has she values not — but longs for other things ( ha ! ha ! 
ha!) — she's ready to make love to me, altho' my face is sallow and 
my state unknown, and handsome, ruddy .Justin is neglected. This 
masquerade of mine is wonderous humorous. Each day some new 
development, but.it must soon end, for Sir Hugo and his mother are 

unhappy. 

(Enter Sir Hugo.) 

Sir Hugo. Johnson, did you bear my message to Farrone and 
bid him here to-day? 

Johnson. I tried to. Sir, but the man has left these parts. 

Sir Hugo. Left? Returned to London? 

Johnson. It doth appear so. Bertram told me he met him on 
the road near Apsden, and his mood was acrid and ill-humored. He 
said he had concluded all his business and was glad to get away — 
that it was a stupid neighborhood, and the people mostly fools — 
they were not virtuous and had not nerve enough for crime. He 
would not live here if you gave him Merton Hall — and other savage 
things. He was like a man put out and vexed and hurried off with- 
out farewell. 

Sir Hugo. Ha! it is a strange departure — but he will return. 

Johnson. (Eagerly.) No, sir; I am sure he will not. 

Sir Hugo. How knowest thou? 

Johnson. I know — why, I know from what Bertram said. 

Sir Hugo. (Meditating — aside— Johnson observing him intently.) 
He is gone to report results and will come again, mayhap, with 
others with him — (sighs and seems disturbed.) Johnson, I will stroll 



The Secret of Merton. 25 

down the holly walk, and should my mother or Miss Annette be 
seeking me, bring me word. T will not ride out this morning — but 
tell Maxwell I wish the horses exercised. And, Johnson, if you can 
take a lesson in the art of riding, it would be well. You are most 
awkward in the saddle, and do jolt about as if in pain — you have no 
ease of seat, and do jerk upon the briddle in most untimely fashion. 
I like your ways and bearing well, and it is pleasant to have you in 
attendance. I'm glad Bertram sent thee to me — but you must learn 
to ride — it is an English art — all gentlemen and those who wait on 
them, should know it. 

{Exit.) 
Johnson. {Laughing.) Ride — ride — eh! they know better how 
to ride than to curb their appeties, which do run away with them and 
jump the fences of proi^erity — ' 'learn to ride" — well, to please thee, 
Hugo, I will try; but, good faith, it hurts my bones and makes me 
stiff. 

{Enter Miss Annesley.) 

Miss A. Mr. Johnson, where is Sir Hugo? 
Johnson. {Pointing.) He walks yonder. 

{Exit Miss A.) 
Johnson. A lovely, gentle lady, whose voice and face unite in 
music — steadfast and tender too, no doubt; but of late Hugo's 
manner to her is constrained and rough. 

{Exit.) 

Scene II.— {The Holly Wcdk, near Castle.) 

Sir Hugo. I tell thee, Annette, we should leave here — I have 
urged it on my mother, but she delays from day to day— 

Annette. Where should we go? 

Sir Hugo. It was my thought that you could remain here or 
visit my mother's relatives at Grassmere, while she and I did go 
abroad! 

Annette. Hugo, I see no object in the trip, for Lady Ann is 
always better here. 

Sir Hugo. {With impatience.) You are like her and contradict 
without a thought. I tell you things are not well at Mei'ton Hall. 
We are better any where than here. We must away — across the 
channel once— we'll quickly disappear. 

Annette. I do not understand. I know your brother was ex- 
pected and has not come— but what of that? You will soon have 
news of him. 

Sir Hugo. {Wildly.) No; you do not understand — not you, and 
I cannot clear the question. But, I tell you, we should go and that 
right soon. 

Annette. And I remain behind? 

Sir Hugo. {Sternly. ) It is better so— I think. 

Annette. If so it should be, and if so you wish, and if there 
be some secret reason for your flight— 

Sir Hugo. {Angrily). Flight! Who spoke of flight? 

Annette. {Smiling gently.) Nay, be not so sharp— I do trust 
thee wholly, but to leave me here alone is not a gracious nor a loving 
act. 



26 The Secret of Merton. 

Sir Hugo. You can ask friends here, and there's Mrs. Seward 
and many servants — 

Annette. But you will not be here, and if all be true that you 
have vowed to me, it is strange to plan a separation. 

Sir Hugo. And strange it must remain — there are matters 
more vital than mere love. 

Annette. Hugo, love is obedient to the loved — your words are 

rough and ominous — I know not what you mean. We have loved 

without your mother's sanction, and yet I gave thee all my heart 

and cannot now recall it. I hoped the future might unfold some 

way — but now [weeping] — 

[Exit. ) 

Sib Hugo. ( Distractedly.) I must e"en bear it. though my heart 
strings snap. It is my mother— my mother whom I guard. Suspi- 
cion darkens 'round us and love vows are dissolved. 

(Exit. ) 

( Annette walking towards Hall is met by Henry Johnson.) 

Johnson. Miss Annesley, I would detain you for a moment— 

Annette. What is it, Johnson? 

Johnson. I have a secret to confide and you must guard it 
strictly. 

Annette. You— almost a stranger here— what mean youV 

Johnson. Even so; but it concerns Sir Hugo and is of grave 
importance. 

ANNETTE. Then tell it quick— for I am sad of heart and would 
be alone. 

Johnson. Come this way. [Exit.) 

Scene III. — Enter Miss Annesley — Johnso7i following. 

Miss Annesley. [In great agitation.) If what you say be true 
then doubly base your purpose here — and when Hugo knows— 

Johnson. Nay— he cannot know. I have your promise. 

Miss A. Oh! I'll keep my word, but so great a wrong must 
free a tongue. You must be foreign born to think affection can be 
bought, or that loss of fortune must mean loss of truth. In England 
we have honor, and it strengthens love in adversity. 

Johnson. Most lovely lady be not so wroth. Surely, it is 
not wrong to offer beauty its best setting, wealth and station. 

Miss A. (Passionately.) Away ! Your petty speeches do infect 
the air, and I despise your empty compliments. Let this Italian come 
and take what is his own— he cannot purchase love. (Exit.) 

Johnson. (Smiling.) Methinks I went too far— this heart is 
, true and like a star shines steady amid clouds. Steadfast and true 
the noble natured are, howe're temptation comes. 

Scene IV .—Merton Woods.— Hem-y Johnson and Justin McCarty. 

Johnson. I tell thee, Justin, thou art a fool — like all men in 
love. Love may, must be of heaven, for in this earth it seems 
astray— it shakes the balance of the mind and all things run to- 
gether — judgment, prudence, common sense and all that makes man 
reasonable is shaken to confusion. This girl is vain and foolish, 
but she loves thee in her heart. 

Justin. She shows it ill. and she does abuse the Irish. 



The 8ECKET OF Merton. 27 

Johnson. Well— what of thatV She may not love the Irish 
but she loves an Irishman, and he'll convert her to the love of race — 

Justin. In troth he will if he has half a chance. Sure, any- 
way. Master Johnson, I cannot break away, and must follow your 
advice and wait. 

Johnson. T'will come out all right soon— and how is Bertram 
now? 

Justin. He is impatient and does mutter to himself. He is a 
gloomy sort of man and makes poor company. I'm tired living at 
the lodge and only for your promise I would not stay a day— 

Johnson. Bah! Maria holds thee like a rope— but, Justin, 
this visit to London that I mentioned — you must start to-night — and 
this letter you will deliver to Mr. Mortimer personally. If he ask 
thee of the sender tell him naught— where you saw him or where he 
is. My vouchers are within, and on the evening of the first of May 
you and Bertram must be at the hall. — Here's money for the trip. 

Justin. But, Maria— 

Johnson. Now, confound Maria, I'll take care of her — 

Justin. That's my business. Master. Have a care! 

Johnson. Away! For London start, and remember May the 
first. ( Exit. ) 

Justin. His orders I must obey, for Bertram says so, and I 
partly guess the reason — and what'ere the outcome be I care not, if 
it brings Maria to her senses and to me. 

Scene V. — Place—Merton Hall— library. Sir Hugo alone and in 
great excitement — Letter in his hand, and tvalking to and fro. 

Sir Hugo. I am amazed — confounded ! I cannot understand — 
let me read it again. (Reads.) 'Tis so, 'tis so. In formal legal 
phrase, "Hubert is alive and coming." In the moment of my 
trouble there comes a thunder crash and the dark cloud disappears, 
and lo! the heavens are clear and I behold the stars. Great God! I 
thank Thee! I thank Thee evermore. But mother and Annette! 
Mother, ^rsf.^ (Exit.) 

(Lady Merton- s apartments.) 

Lady M. I can no longer decline to go. 'Tis vain to dream of 
help or chance, I must go and bear my secret with me. Hugo rages 
at delay and no further can it last. 

( Enter Sir Hugo hurnedly.) 

Sir Hugo. Mother! Mother! There is strange news abroad — 

Lady M. Ah! Have they found the body? 

Sir Hugo. (Laughing almost loildly and dancing 'round her. ) 
Body? Body? Whose body? There is no body. — We've all been 
wonderfully in error— strange news — delightful news ! He is coming 
on the first of May— 

Lady M. ( With a shriek. ) Who? 

Sir Hugo. Hubert! 

L ady M . ( Totters and fain ts.) 

Sir Hugo. (Lifts her in his arms and calls.) Here, Seward! 
Maria! Come quick, my mother's ill. Come, I say— I was too sud- 
den. 



28 ' The Secret of Mekton. 

Mrs. Seward. [Entering.] My lady dear! Here, lay heron 
the bed — she will soon revive. You must have startled her and she 
has not been strong. 

Sir Hugo. Yes, but I had good news and it doth never kill- 
how pale she is? 

Mrs. Seward. Retire a moment, Sir Hugo, and leavemehere. 

[Exit Sir Hugo.) 

Lady M. {Beviving.) Ah! Seward, is it you? I lost my senses 
for a moment. Where's Hugo? Bring him here. 

[Enter SiR HUGO.) 

Lady M. My boy, is it so? Did'st thou say he is coming? 

Sir Hugo. Mother, dear, be calm. Why, you tremble like a 
leaf. 

Lady M. ( Sharply. ] Tell me, tell me all. I must know — 

Sir Hugo. It is true, mother — most unquestioned fact that 
Hubert is alive and coming on the first of May. Here is the letter 
from our solicitors. [Beads): 

"Sir Hubert Merton, who succeeds to all Merton estates under 
the will of the late Sir Hugo, has arrived in England and will visit 
Merton Hall on Saturday evening, May the first. He desires Lady 
Ann and yourself to meet him and also such friends and relatives 
as Lady Merton may select. By direction of Sir Hubert we will.be 
present. Fairfax & Mortimer, 

Solicitors." 

Lady Ann. I am confused and weak — astounded by this news— 
I cannot speak now — leave me awhile and then return. 

[Exit Sm Hugo and Mrs. Seward.) 

Sir Hugo. [In the library, alone. ) It is ecstacy to have this 
cloud dispersed, to feel once more a free and unwatched man — A 
Merton of Merton who fears no one in the world. Through what 
horror-haunted regions have I wandered. What thoughts, what 
fears have plagued me, and now the shadows vanish and all is light 
around. But Annette — beloved — now to explain all and atone. 
[Bings a bell.) 

[Enter Henry .Johnson. ) 

Sir Hugo. .Johnson, we have great news to-day — news that so 
delights us that we must either laugh or weep — our hearts are full. 
My brother ilubert is coming on the first of May — we feared some ill 
had happened him, he was so long delayed. 

Johnson. [Smiling. ) It is good of you to make a brother 
welcome who comes to take your place — 

Hugo. [Haughtily.) We are brothers, sir, and Mertons — but, 
Johnson, I wish to mail a note at Apsden for Miss Annesley — she is 
at Grassmere. Will you have it sent and that right quick? Send 
Maxwell, for if you ride you may fall ofi" and spoil the post. 

Johnson. Aye, faith sir, I make poor progress in the art. 
^ [Exit.) 

[In the corridor.) 

Johnson. The shadows lift and Hugo is himself. He is a 
splendid fellow and a fitting lord of Merton, and now they weep for 
joy that Hubert is alive and coming to displace. They wished him 



The Secret of Meiiton. 29 

dead, perhaps, and now they welcome him. But love its all the same 
howe'er it comes and 'tis sweet to love and be beloved, and Merton 
hearts are true and flower in nobility — and on the. first of May my 
masquerade is over and then — why, then for Italy. 

ACT VI. 

Scene I. — Time, evening — Place, Merton Hall — banners displayed and 
windows all alight — a hrilliant company of ladies and gentlemen 
loalking about — hall doors open, etc. Lady Merton and Hugo on 
the laxon by themselves. 

Sm Hugo. Now thus it pleases me to see the hall with banners 
flying and windows all ablaze. 

Lady M. Yes, it hath a noble front and bespeaks an ancient 
home — but, dear son, 'twill pain thee much to loose it. 

Hugo. Mother, not a word of that — I am content. The dark- 
ness hath departed and the light of peace is shining. 

Lady M. Nay, son, I would not change our lot. We have 
learned much within a period brief, and fears most dire have our 
teachers been. In wishing evil we passed within the shadow of a 
crime and feel remorse's agony—dark fears, dark days and horror- 
haunted nights. Now, heaven's mercy has dissolved the gloom, our 
hearts rejoice — we do regain the joy of life when free from fear. 

Hugo. But, mother, Annette — why has she waited 'till this day? 

Lady M. (Smiling.) Some girl's whim, no doubt. But t' would 
seem their late in coming. 

{Mr. Mortimer approaches. ) 

Lady M. We await the guests friend Mortimer. 

Me. Mortimer. It nears the hour. Sir Hubert said he would 
be here at nine o'clock. 

Lady M. Come, Hugo; let us take our stations in the hall and 
be ready to receive. 

SCE^B II.— Grand Hall.— Lady Merton and Hugo standing at end.— 
Ladies, gentlemen and attendants. 

(Enter Justin McCarty in Merton Liven/. ) 
Justin. Sir Hubert Merton and Miss Annette Annesley. 
(Enter Henry Johnson splendidly dressed in foreign costume, leading 
Miss Annesley — Bertram following.) 

Hubert. Lady Merton and Brother Hugo, here I am. 

Lady M. Who is this Hugo":* I see in brilliant guise your late 
attendant. 

Hugo. What masquerade is this ? I am confused— amazed. Is 
Henry Johnson my brother Hubert? 

Hubert. 'Tis even so, my brother, dear. Let astonishment 
subside. I will explain. But first. Lady Merton, I do salute thee 
and pray to kiss your hand. 'Twas promised and delayed. (Takes 
her hand and kisses it, while she regards him with bewilderment.) 
Brother Hugo, we meet in equal guise at last. I hope I am a wel- 
come guest. 

Hugo. (Greatly affected.) I'm all confounded by thy play of 



;J0 The Shcest of Mfrton. 

parts. But, brother, dear, if so it be, you are most welcome to your 
own — {The brothers affectionately embrace.) 

Lady M. Lad-ies and gentlemen, there has been here some 
comedy — by Sir Hubert's wit devised. But here he stands, no doubt. 
Hubert Merton, of Merton, is presented to his guests. (Applause.) 

Hubert. And here is Miss Annesley. Most welcome too, no 
doubt. [Annette greets Hugo and Lady 31. affectionately and takes her 
stand beside them.) Now, it is my duty briefly to explain. All here 
know I am Italian born and little versed in English ways; and 
so wedded to my place of birth that I am little fit for England or its 
climate. Good faith! it is too cold and damp for children of the 
sun. And so it came to pass when my father died and left me Lord 
of Merton I did not rejoice; for though it was my wish to see an 
ancient home supported and ruled in fitting fashion, I knew I could 
not be its master. I was too set in other ways and too diverse in 
tastes. But it was my duty to visit it and meet my mother and Lady 
Ann, and this I decided to do in simple guise and without formality. 
I came by way of Briarly, and being told it was an easy walk to 
Merton, I took the grass path through the woods. Here I was over- 
taken by the storm and darkness, and by a sudden fall or falling 
branch, I was injured in the head and lost consciousness of all. And 
thus old Bertram found me and took me to his lodge, and nursed 
me back to life. 

Bertram. [Greatly agitated.) Nay, Master Hubert, it was not 
thus — let me — 

Sir Hubert. No, Bertram, be thou silent, and let me tell the 
story as I will. As I did regain my health I mused on the situation 
and made inquiry about the hall. And being of romantic Italian 
tastes, I devised a masquerade and came m cogm?7o and made ac- 
quaintance with my kindred as a stranger. Save to yonder lady. 
Miss Annette, who of late was in my confidence, I was unknow^n to 
all within these walls until this moment. But the play is over and I 
stand revealed as Hubert Merton, and greet you all with gladness 
and good wishes. [A2)2^lause. ) Ere we proceed to festive scenes, my 
friend, Mortimer, hath a statement yet to make. 

Mr. Mortimer. It is now announced that by deeds and grants, 
all duly made, executed and signed, Hubert Merton hath surrendered 
his succession here, and reserving certain income to himself, trans- 
ferred his rights under the will of his father, to his brother, Hugo, 
whom I now declare the Lord of Merton Hall. 

Hugo. [Excitedly.) This must not be. Hubert! brother, this 
wild sacrifice is refused. 

Lady M. Sir Hubert, this is not English custom. We cannot 
accept so great a gift, nor have we deserved it. It cannot — 

Hubert. Hugo — Lady Ann — the deed is done, and must so 
remain. I tell you it must be so. I am bound to Italy, romance 
and art, and cannot live in England, and play the part of country 
gentleman. But Merton must remain and Hugo is its proper master. 
And Lady Ann, with thy consent. ' What better mistress can there 
be than the fair Annette. 

Lady M. [Smiling. ) Sir Hubert, as Lord of Merton, thy word 
and will must govern and other purposes must yield. 



The SKOir-,T of Merton. 31 

Hugo. Annette, dear love, 1 have mysterious been to thee of 
late, but thou knovvest my heart. It has never wavered in fidelity. 

Annette. Hugo! As Merton's chief or otherwise, I love thee. 
We have been lovers all our lives. 

Hubert. A noble lady and a noble man will keep the name 
and fame of Merton. {jlpiikmse by all the company. ) Now, let festi- 
vities proceed, for all is well and joy must speak by music and in 
dance. 

Bertram. ( Retiring from hall.) The noblest, purest of the race, 
is this Italian. His generous soul doth shine above us like a star. 
I wonder if he doth the truth suspect. 

Scene III. — In the Corridor. — Justin meeting Maria. 

Justin. Well, Maria, I am back again, but will not long 
remain. I go to Italy with Sir Hubert. 

Maria. Leaving here? 

Justin. Sir Hubert hath arranged it, and I need travel for 
my health. 

Maria. But, Justin, you look very well, and there is no place 
like home. 

Justin. I have trouble in the heart and change will do me 
good. I'll find an Italian sweetheart with dark eyes and a velvet, 
olive skin. There's too much pink and white in English faces. 

Maria. And so you go away and care naught for them you 
leave behind? It's like the Irish to be fickle. 

Justin. And still you do berate the Irish, who, in love and 
war are always first — 'tis a good thing I am going. 

Maria. [Affectecl.) You never did, you never could rightly 
see my heart, you are — {sohs.) I don't want you to go, Justin — there, 
it's out. 

Justin. [Puts his arms 'roundher. ) Why, Maria; you do care, 
do you? 

{Enter Sir Hubert.) 

Hubert. It's all made up, is it? I fear me, Justin, you will 
stay and with Maria occupy the gate house. 

Justin. It's like this. Sir Hubert: If you order me I'll go — 
but now, Maria says she cares for me, I'd rather stay. It's love 
that makes the difference. 

Maria. But the olive velvet skin, and the pink and white of 
English faces? 

Justin. I like light colors, they are so expressive. 

Sir Hubert. 'Tis settled, then. So ye abide at Merton Hall, 
and faithful always to its rulers be. 

{Exit Maria and Justin.) 

Sir Hubert. The masquerade is over, and now for Italy. My 
coming was not welcome, but they grieve at my departure — 'tis 
pleasure to do good and leave happiness behind to bless your 
name. Farewell, old Merton! 

( Scene changes and reveals the hall all lighted up.) 

Farewell! Thou hast a sombre aspect, with thy rocky front, 
heavy woods and often lowering skies, but, thou art stable and will 



32 The Secret of Merton. 

endure. And English homes that do enshrine the memory of noble 
lives, and do inspire the love of country, must ever form the true 
foundation of a lasting state. Naught threatens but the love of 
rank and wealth which, worshipped to excess, do violate the honor, 
truth and justice which alone can consecrate a home. Now, come, 
fair Italy, with simple life and quiet, golden days. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




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